


Veni, Vidi, Vici

by gallery



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, F/F, beach volleyballer!clarke, fencer!lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallery/pseuds/gallery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa's on her last Games, but not all endings are sad. </p><p>Olympics AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veni, Vidi, Vici

**Author's Note:**

> (Not quite) star-crossed athletes. Are they even a thing?

Four years ago, Lexa had gotten the Olympic Rings tattooed onto her inner forearm, the result of a drunken dare with Bellamy Blake. In hindsight, it had been a bad decision—terrible, even—but all in all she had liked it; it was a reminder of the pure adrenalin and high from the Games, the feeling of invincibility wrapped in the colours of each country.

But Lexa had been in her prime then, and she suspected that the feeling of being special hadn’t been unique to only her.

Today, sitting in LAX and watching most of Team USA arrive to for the plane towards Rio, she had never been more aware of it. Young athletes, each sculpted to physical perfection, walking around like they were on top of the world. It hadn’t been that long ago when that had been her, confident that she was going to win a gold medal for Team USA.

(And she did, but that was a whole other matter entirely.)

“You’re thinking hard.”

She looked up to see Clarke, young, shining, _golden_ , dropping into the seat next to her. She had her hood draped over her head, tucked into a jacket two sizes too big for her, looking far too comfortable and adorable than anyone should be allowed to be.

“Just thinking about being old.”

Clarke pulled a face. “Do you ever talk about something other than your impending retirement?”

The fact that Clarke knew didn’t come quite as a surprise to her. It had, after all, been a more or less open secret within the community, with outlets predicting her retirement announcement for an entire year before she had released the press statement. Then, it made its round for almost an entire week on national news.

“It’s the biggest event in my sporting career, Clarke. Of course I’m going to talk about it.”

Clarke hummed, her finger tracing the lines of Lexa’s tattoo absently, which—she wasn’t ashamed to admit—made her skin tingle worse than the day she had gotten it inked.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do after?”

“Other than the public speaking deals and tell-all book? Not really.” She had an offer waiting for her back home, a law degree, but she had hesitated. It wasn’t easy, after all, to leave behind something which had been a part of her life for twenty-four years.

They sat in silence like that for a long moment, an illusion of serenity created by the soft morning light filtering in from the glass windows, the buzz of activity in LAX forming a small, untouchable bubble around them, and all that mattered right here, right now wasn’t plans for the future, but Clarke leaning heavily against her and tracing circles on her forearm again and again.

Then a loud screech shattered the illusion, and everything fell back to where they once were.

“ _Bellamy!_ ”

Almost the entire room of people turned to see the Blake siblings, squabbling over a bunch of scattered luggage.

“I better go see what’s wrong,” Clarke said. She turned to Lexa, an unmeasurably fond look on her face. “Don’t go writing your epitaphs yet. It’s retirement; not death.”

 _The death of a first life, maybe_ , but she didn’t bother to correct Clarke, letting a smile sit on her face as her eyes followed Clarke closely. Then she took out her phone and took a snapshot of the scene:

The gentle light streaming into the airport, the entire team occupied with either sleeping or speaking to each other, excitement shining on their young, hopeful faces. In the corner, if she squinted, she could probably see Clarke, helping the Blakes put their things back in order, half-scolding, half-tender.

—

“So, how’s retirement treating you?”

The first night back, they had gone out to explore Rio, a time-honoured tradition ever since Anya and Lincoln’s first games and many games before that. Bellamy and Lexa had continued the tradition, and now, watching Charlotte chug her weight in beer, Lexa felt assured in knowing that the tradition would continue once again.

“I’m not retired yet. One more Games to go.”

“Yeah, but you’re about there.” Bellamy leaned on the counter, his eyes flicking ever so often to the young bartender wiping down the beer glasses. She was pretty, definitely, but Lexa also knew that Bellamy had a fiancée back at home whom he loved, and so she tapped the table loudly to pull his attention back.

“And when are _you_ planning to retire?” she asked. “You’re practically a fossil.”

“Thirty-two is hardly a fossil,” he said, but grew serious. “I don’t know. It’s weird, you know? You grow up all your life thinking that this is it, the Olympics, the end-all be-all of your life. It’s just four years after four years, hitting goals and targets. You don’t really think about what comes after that.” 

He traced a scratch on the side of the counter.

“Gina wants to move to Southeast Asia. She's got a job offer there—which is great, but what will I do there?” He laughed, a short, sharp one. “You don’t realise your utter lack of skill till you’re faced with the real world; and, to answer your question: yes, I’m going to retire. After this.” He downed the entire glass.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Clarke dancing with Octavia in the middle of the dance floor, smiling and flirting with a group of Brazilian men. Clarke looked radiant, despite the dingy orange light of the bar, and when she looked over to see Lexa looking at her, she smiled, one which Lexa returned. 

Bellamy followed her gaze over his shoulder and chuckled. “You guys still dancing around your feelings then?”

“Who?”

“You and Clarke. It’s been ages.”

Eight years, to be exact. But it wasn’t like Lexa was counting.

“When are you guys going to get your shit together?”

Interesting question, one that Lexa would have loved to know the answer to too; but now, more than ever, the singular thought dogged her: It had, after all, been eight years. It would be stupid to hope, despite everything that told her otherwise.

Instead, she said: “I met someone.”

“In LA?” Bellamy’s disbelief was truly encouraging.

“Yeah. Costia. She’s a physiotherapist.”

She had met Costia after a ligament surgery, a long and painful period where she had thought she’d never be able to compete again. But Costia was kind and gentle, and patient, and she had gently nursed Lexa back to a full recovery within the matter of a year. It wouldn’t be a far stretch to say that she was here at her last Olympics solely because of Costia.

“Do you love her?”

“I don’t know. I could.”

“Well.” Bellamy grabbed her shoulder and squeezed it. “That’s good then. I’m glad for you.” Then he threw back the last of his beer and stood. “I’m going to head back. This body isn’t like how it was twelve years ago.”

She laughed, giving Bellamy a last, fleeting hug before her friend left, messing her hair the way Anya used to do for good measure.

Maybe she would go back too, she thought, looking out at the other members of the team, most of whom she barely recognised. Her night had long past; it was time for others to take her place now. The thought of a nice, long bath, a book, and the cool air-conditioning of her room already sounded heavenly, and she wondered if she wasn’t already turning into a grumpy old lady at the ripe age of thirty.

“Still thinking?” Clarke sidled up to Bellamy’s vacated seat, her face flushed from dancing. She signalled the bartender for a glass of beer, drinking a good third of it before putting it down and sighing. “You’ve been sitting out here by yourself the entire time.”

“You know I don’t dance.”

“Well, you can go one round. For old times’ sake.” Clarke intertwined her fingers with Lexa’s, pulling her off her stool and into the centre of the room. Helpless to resist, Lexa let herself be led.

Eight years of unspoken words and exchanged glances, and she still couldn’t say no to Clarke. Maybe this would always be the case; somewhere, somehow, there would always be that one piece of her heart that she couldn’t ever claim back.

Hemmed in on all sides by people far younger than her, Lexa felt her heartbeat pick up as the live band started a loud, upbeat, Latin song. She didn’t know the song, and didn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body, but with Clarke’s hands on her hips guiding her, she thought she did pretty well.

The music was heady and the alcohol intoxicating, and soon, her world narrowed down to Clarke and only Clarke. Her face was still flushed, giving her cheeks a rosy glow, and her hair cast a brilliant halo around her head, and she looked so radiant, Lexa thought she had never seen a more beautiful woman.

“You’re staring,” laughed Clarke, leaning in close. The smell of Clarke’s perfume made her head spin.

“Can’t help it,” she murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

And then Clarke was staring at her with those blue eyes, and Lexa felt like she had been shipwrecked far away from home. A hand crept up to the side of her face, holding her, caressing her jaw, and then the distance narrowed, and her eyes landed on Clarke’s lips—pink, soft, and plump, looking redder than she had ever seen.

The distance closed.

Then someone shoved her, and it was like the first blast of cold air after surfacing from the sea.

Lexa pulled back, shaking her head harshly.

“We can’t. We promised.”

Clarke looked devastated, her eyes shining with unshed tears, hands withdrawing back to themselves. She never thought she would see Clarke like this: raw, angry, broken. But they had made a promise eight years ago, a promise she remembered as vividly as the day it happened.

It had been in a bar like this one—hidden, dingy, _authentic_. The streets of Beijing were sleek and modern, despite the perpetual cloud of haze that seemed to linger no matter what; and she had been excited, excited to be at her second Olympics, excited to be 5th in the world and the potential of winning a gold medal.

Then she met Clarke, young, beautiful, and playful, and it was like being stripped bare. She had loved so much and loved so deep that it had devastated her when Clarke asked her to wait.

 _I’m not ready_ , she had said. _Not yet_.

And she had understood. Their duties had been to their sports first.

But she was retiring now and Clarke wasn’t, and she was starting to realise that maybe—just maybe—that ship had sailed a long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could muster, carefully avoiding Clarke’s eyes, and fled.

—

Running was her favourite part of PT. The individuality, the freedom of simply being alone: it gave her space to think and to reflect.

For the past two mornings, she could think of nothing but the moment she had shared with Clarke in the dive bar, despite her best efforts. In fact, Clarke had been on her mind the entire time she was supposed to be thinking of Costia.

 _For you_ , Costia had said, closing her hand over a tiny box. _Think about it while you’re there_.

It was the same box that she now ran her fingers over, a tiny red velvet one that opened to reveal a tastefully cut diamond set in a silver band.

 _I know that you’ve had someone else in mind for a long time_ , Costia said, _but maybe after this Games…_

A sign of her full commitment to Costia after this phase was over. No more half-hearted conversations, no more interrupted dates for training. Just full commitment. The same single-minded devotion she had given to her sport.

She stared at the ring for a moment longer, then snapped it shut.

Now wasn’t the time for thinking. Not here, not now. She would think about it on the plane home. Or maybe, the cowardly side of herself thought, she would eventually come to a decision in a burst of inspiration. No more agonising.

As she jogged to the piste provided for training, she heard Titus’s disapproving voice.

“You’re late.”

Already, the other fencers had begun their practice, with five matches set up for the Women’s Epée team.

“Sorry. Got held up.”

“You can’t be tardy just because you’re number one. Ontari has been waiting for ten minutes.”

“Sorry.”

He nodded. “Go change now.”

As she walked off to the side, she heard the chorus of chirps go off simultaneously, creating music intimately familiar to her ears. It was nothing short of awe-inspiring to see so many of the world’s best come together to compete.

She snuck a glance at Titus, and upon confirming that he was indeed distracted by Ontari, quickly snapped a photo. It was clear enough to capture all three teams—the Epéeists fencing their bouts, the Sabreists doing their drills with the dummy, and the Foilists practicing their technique with each other. Then she changed and jogged back to rejoin the Foilists.

Ontari was a newcomer, relatively old for her first circuit on the games. But there was something Lexa saw in her that reminded her of herself: a hunger, perhaps, to be the best. She was seeded 35th in the world, completely unremarkable, except for Nia’s utter confidence that the girl would come away with at least a bronze this time.

The woman was question was currently barking at the Epée team and Lexa scrunched her nose in displeasure.

If there was one thing Lexa would allow, was that Ontari had the raw talent. Her technique was sloppy, her footwork weak, but she had the judgment to make up for it. Her knack of timing and distance was impeccable, and many times, Lexa found herself caught off-guard, as Ontari’s point caught her on the shoulder.

But she didn’t train twenty-four years for nothing, and so she beat Ontari back with a combination of superior technique and footwork.

By the time they were done with morning trainings, she felt ready to fence.

“Lexa, a word please.” Titus drew her off to the side. “You’re ready for this?”

She nodded.

“Good.” The man let out a rare smile. “It’s your last Games. No one wants you to come away with anything less than a gold this year.” He paused, resting his hands on Lexa’s shoulders and squeezed. “I knew from the start that you were going to be extraordinary. I have never met a more dedicated or talented fencer.”

“I couldn’t have done this without you, Coach.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Titus gruffly. He patted her on the back. “Okay, go have your lunch.”

She smiled, and in a moment that didn’t entirely belong to her, she threw her arms around Titus and gave him a tight hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and then she let go, leaving a fifty-year-old man blinking and stammering in shock.

When she turned back to grab her things, she found Roan waiting for her, a bottle of Gatorade standing on the seat beside him.

“Ready to win the gold?”

“Always.” She broke the cap and guzzled the drink. “Lemonade. You always buy the ones I hate.”

Roan grinned. “What’s a little friendly rivalry without the rivalry?”

He did have a point. Over the years, their mutual antagonism had simmered into a mutual respect, one that came with years of working together at various worldwide competitions and the tempering of young aggressiveness. But still, a friendly rivalry was a rivalry, and Lexa wasn’t about to deny him the little pleasures in life.

“Hey, say cheese.” She blinked as Roan held up his phone, taking a snap of the both of them with their lunch packs in their lap. “Brilliant.” He laughed at Lexa’s expression. “This is going up on Instagram.”

She scowled at the caption: _Lunch with this dinosaur @l.woods_.

“Can’t believe you’re retiring,” he said. “Wasn’t so long ago that I was laughing at how young you were.”

And he had, didn’t he? She remembered the anger, and the crack of her knuckles as she punched—and knocked him out—in the middle of the night. Something of it had leaked to the news, but luckily for the both of them, the team managers kept it quiet enough that no disciplinary action had to be taken.

“I knocked you out.”

“Only because I let you.”

They watched as Ontari approached Nia, where the coach started giving her a pep talk.

“She treats her the way Titus treated you,” Roan said, rolling his eyes. “The Chosen One and all that.”

“I wasn’t the chosen one.”

“Oh you were.” Roan shook his head. “And we were all jealous. Frankly, you weren’t that good, but Titus always had to have his favourites.” He laughed at the expression on her face. “He’ll replace you soon enough. That always happens. Even gold medallists fade away into the background.”

“A new hero for every generation, huh?”

“Exactly.” Roan crossed his legs. “I, on the other hand, am planning to stay till I’m seventy. So no one will ever forget me.”

“Of course you would,” she said. In the distance, Titus was beginning to call them, and she stood, throwing her packed lunch into the trash bags. “Good luck on your match.”

“And good luck on yours.”

She didn’t look back as she reached Titus, knowing beyond a doubt that this wouldn’t be the last time she’d be seeing Roan. After all, the man had a knack for showing up to places where she never expected to see him.

—

“So, I was thinking,” said Raven, mouthful of breakfast. “It _is_ actually possible to travel back in time.”

“How so?” asked Jasper. If he was skeptical, he didn’t show it.

“You’ll just have to run fast enough—so maybe if you run hard enough, you’ll be able to go in time and stop yourself from wearing that horrible shade of green!” She cackled loudly as Jasper glowered, pulling off his neon green jacket and hiding it in his lap.

“Don’t be mean, Rave. You know he can’t help his horrible fashion sense.” Octavia grinned wickedly as Jasper slumped in his seat.

“Makes you think you’re gonna miss them, huh?” Clarke tapped Lexa’s foot with hers under the table. She had been distant for the past few days, making no move to speak to Lexa or sit next to her like she had always done. “You still taking pictures for your scrapbook?”

“Only some.”

“Did you take a picture of me?”

She couldn’t tell if Clarke was flirting or not, but then again, Clarke always seemed to be flirting to her. She jumped a little as she felt Clarke’s foot on her leg.

“Maybe.”

That was a lie. She had at least eight pictures of Clarke hidden away on her phone, each one of them candid, each one of them beautiful. She had captured profiles of Clarke’s face, of her back, of her front, some of them with her smiling brightly, some of them with her frowning like a thundercloud.

She hated herself for it, but each time she took a shot, she had told herself: _last chance_ , and that decided it. It wasn’t like she was going to see Clarke again, living on opposite ends of the country as they did, and it was likely that she was going to settle down into a life of placid stability with Costia and her physiotherapy practice, and Lexa’s law degree, and maybe two kids and a dog.

Because what else did she have after this, other than four (or five) gold medals?

Nothing could probably beat the glamour and the high of the Olympics, with the intense scrutiny of the media and the rest of the world. In fact, she didn’t quite know if anything else could ever compare.

Then she felt a hand on her arm.

“You’re a million miles away,” said Clarke. “Don’t you get tired of thinking so much?”

“I like thinking,” she said. “Makes me feel less like a machine.”

Clarke smiled. “Maybe someday you’ll let me know what you’re always thinking of.”

Maybe. But she was starting to think that for Clarke, maybe that someday wasn’t ever going to come.

But it didn’t mean she could squander the rest of it.

She leaned in on her forearms, narrowing her attention onto the girl.

“Why don’t _you_ tell me what you’re always thinking of?” she asked, and was rewarded with a pleasant glow as Clarke squirmed.

—

She managed to take some time off on the day of Clarke’s second match, arriving at the arena with five minutes to spare. Bellamy was already sitting at one of the front rows, chewing his nails down to nothing.

“How’s the game?” she asked, moving the bags to make space for herself.

“It’s okay. They seem pretty confident.”

She looked out into the arena, where Clarke and Octavia was hopping on the balls of their feet. Their opponents—the Italians—looked stern as they stepped onto the pitch, adjusting the straps of their sports bra.

“The hottest game in the Olympics, and all I can worry about is whether Octavia is going to lose.” Bellamy shook his head.

But while Bellamy was too anxious to appreciate the sport, Lexa certainly wasn’t. Her eyes were instantly drawn to Clarke, and the way the outfit seemed to cling nicely to her. She had grown a lot tanner than last time too, and a lot fitter; she tried not to let her staring become too obvious as her eyes travelled down to Clarke’s bare stomach…

She must have failed, because Bellamy let out a bark of laughter.

“Well at least one of us is appreciating the game enough for two.”

She sat back in the chair, suitably chastised. Clarke, however, appeared to have been aware of her staring, and sent her a huge wink from where she had been stretching, wiggling her butt for effect. Lexa felt her cheeks start to warm.

She stayed for the first half of game, till she was reasonably satisfied that Clarktavia—as the girls had dubbed themselves—was going to win, before she left. After all, they would want to celebrate with their coaches—and Lexa had a training to get to if she was going to win her own game.

—

The first matches of her day had gone well.

Anya had called in just that morning to wish her well and to remind her of the most basic tips of fencing. Gustus, too, had sent her a message reminding her not to be nervous. Even Costia had dropped a text, one that made her all too guilty for neglecting to think of her for the past several days.

Roan had stuck with her all through till the quarterfinals, effectively functioning as her piste-side coach, and sidelining Titus with his shouting. His event had finished the day before, and he had netted himself a bronze, losing only to Germany and Italy, leaving him exceedingly satisfied.

“Good work,” he said, as soon as she signed off on the results and dropped her mask. “You might just win this.”

Beside him, Titus nodded. “Stay focused. And remember to cover your _sixte_.”

When the results came out, Roan had checked them for her, hurrying back to report her opponents. Italy, then either Ontari or Russia.

“Take a break,” said Titus, “and remember to come back half an hour before to warm up.”

She had half-expected Roan to continue following her, but he had disappeared to where the men’s sabre was starting to warm up, following Artigas around as he attempted to train with the dummy on the side.

After putting her things away and getting changed, Lexa decided that she would take a walk around the stadium, and maybe take more pictures as she roamed. It helped, she realised, to keep her mind off the sport during her breaks, letting both her limbs and her mind rest.

She didn’t realise Clarke had been watching her match till the girl joined her, looking tired and sweaty from her morning training.

“You played well,” she said, smiling. “I couldn’t really tell what was going on, but you got lots of lights, so that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, good,” Lexa echoed, but really, she was too distracted by the sweat on Clarke’s neck to respond properly.

Clarke chuckled throatily, then a hand reached under her chin to draw her gaze upwards. “My eyes are here.”

“Sorry.” Lexa flushed. It wasn’t like her to be this distracted. Okay, fine: it wasn’t like her to be this distracted, until Clarke came into the equation, of course.

Clarke, it was always Clarke.

The other girl tangled their fingers together as they exited the arena, walking them towards the exit of the stadium.

“There’s this little place just outside that I found,” she explained. “Sells the best Mexican food I've had so far.” She grinned. “I bet you haven’t had lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, her stomach growled, and the both of them laughed.

“Come on then, hungry,” said Clarke. “Let’s feed you.”

It turned out that the Mexican place was only a few shops down from the bar they had been to on that first night, a little place filled only with locals: a surefire sign that a place was probably one of the better places in the city. 

They ordered enchiladas and quesadillas, sitting shoulder to shoulder in a booth and drinking coke out of the same cup. It felt like she was seventeen again and going on cheesy dates with girls that held her hand and make her heart pound like it was going to beat out of her chest.

Clarke made her feel like that. Always had.

“I’m going to miss you,” Clarke suddenly whispered, leaning her face into Lexa’s neck. _Last time, last time_ , Lexa’s mind screamed at her, and she bit her lip, forcing all thoughts of Costia and the ring down. Just this last time, she promised herself, and then she would devote herself to Costia, forget all the feelings she’d ever felt when Clarke brushed past her or smiled at her.

“Me too.”

“I wish you didn’t have to retire.”

“Every good thing comes to an end,” said Lexa. “Someday you’ll have to retire too.”

Clarke breathed out slowly, against her neck, and Lexa shivered, goose-bumps erupted all over the skin of her neck and down her spine. Then Clarke looked up, and to her horror, it brimmed with tears.

“I wish we could stay like this. Always.”

And then Lexa panicked.

“I-I met someone,” she stammered. “Her name’s Costia.”

It was like as if she had slapped Clarke. The girl drew back, eyes wide, mouth fallen open into an ‘o’, and she ruined it, ruined everything.

She started babbling like an idiot.

“It’s just—it’s been eight years and I’m retiring now, and I’m thirty; I don’t have much time left to wait any longer, and Costia is nice, and she understands, and she’s willing to be patient with me; and you know I love you, Clarke, but I don’t know if I can wait anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” said Clarke, and the sound of it was more terrible than any tears Clarke could have shed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t you realise you…” Her voice broke off, leaving a chasm wide enough for oceans. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Clarke, I didn’t mean it that way.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “I just—” She paused. “Come away with me, Clarke,” she said, squeezing her hand. “I can take photos and you can do art, just like we wanted. Just say something, anything and I’ll drop law school.” _And Costia. For you._

Clarke shuddered, and for a long moment Lexa thought—hoped—that she might agree. Then she spoke, and everything came crashing down.

“I can’t, Lexa.” The words sliced through her hope like a knife. “I’ve still got two more Games in me. I can’t give up dreaming for a gold medal just because you’re promising me the world. I-I have to go.” She got up, slapping a hundred dollar bill on the table before taking off, leaving Lexa alone at the table with the shattered pieces of her heart.

—

Immediately, Roan could sense her dark mood when she returned.

“Bad lunch?” he asked, and frowned when he got no answer. Holding her arm gently, he turned her to face him. “Hey, what happened? Blondie again?”

When she shrugged, the man scowled. “I knew that girl was trouble. I told you to stay away from her.”

“Not now, Roan, please.”

He softened. “Come on,” he said, leading her to the chairs. “Whatever happened, you got to snap out of this. No cute blonde girl is going to cheat you out of a gold medal, okay? Especially not this one.”

She nodded, but said nothing as she began to put on her gear.

Roan growled and shoved her.

“Are you a world-class athlete or not? Stop behaving like a baby because you got your heart broken. This is the Olympics, and like it or not, you’ve got the entire country’s hopes riding on you so you better sober the fuck up and get your head in the game.”

The word struck something deep within her.

This was something she had been training all her life to reach. It was stupid to squander it over nothing.

She breathed out slowly, steadying herself.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m being stupid. Let’s win this.”

She blazed past Italy, crushing her opponent with a stunning 15-7 defeat. The exhilaration as she pulled her mask off, the large bear hugs by her teammates—those were memories that would probably always stay with her. Even Nia was smiling broadly, nodding her approval at the fact that Team USA had at least bagged a silver.

“Ontari won her game too,” Artigas reported, overjoyed. “So we’re getting gold and silver!”

He, on the other hand, had lost in the round of 16, losing to Russia by a tiny margin. Roan had been understandably disappointed, but Artigas had at least a good three or four more Games in him to win.

She sat by her piste, waiting for the announcement of the final match, when she noticed six figures slip in from the side of the doors. As soon as they unfurled their homemade banner, reading _L E X A_ , she knew who they were—Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Monty, Jasper, and Lincoln, who had returned as the boxing coach for the men’s team.

She smiled and waved at them, earning cheers and screams.

“Come on, get ready,” said Titus, patting her on the shoulder. “You’ve fenced Ontari before; you know her weaknesses. Exploit them.”

On the other side, Nia was doing the same thing.

Then they were suiting up, testing their weapons against their _lamé_ , and waiting.

Lexa took in a deep breath as the referee raised his hand, and they began to fence.

—

It was just as well that Clarke didn’t say yes to her, she thought, given how spectacularly she had lost to Ontari.

She had done well the first three minutes, leading with two points, when suddenly, it was like Ontari had unlocked a new level of ferociousness within herself, going all out and overwhelming Lexa till they stood on the precipice, Ontari leading with 14-13.

Titus had called for a halt, holding her mask between his hands and whispering urgently to her, giving her head a firm shake for good measure. _Stop thinking so much_ , he growled, _just react_.

She had tried, had given it a valiant effort, but then Ontari had tricked her with a disengage, lured her in with a backwards step, and surprised her with a flick coming in from her _sixte_. She shouldn’t have been tricked, not at all, but she had, and it had cost her the gold.

She was pretty inconsolable.

Roan had sat next to her for a good ten minutes, talking to her; her other teammates had given her hugs; and even her personal band of six cheerleaders had even attempted to do a synchronised cheer for her, but nothing helped. She had let her mind get into the way of her sport, and she had paid the price for it.

After a while, even Titus had left, leaving her sitting on the piste alone, hunched over her mask. The officials had left the lights on just for her, reminding her that they would go off on their own by 11.

She didn’t realise she was no longer alone till Clarke sat down next to her, sighing.

“I’m okay,” she said automatically, not moving. Her mask sat between her legs, sword sprawled out on the metal, and it was her sword that Clarke picked up, giving it an experimental twirl.

“I didn’t expect it to be this heavy. You guys make it look as light as a piece of aluminium.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“You doing okay?”

“Got my heart broken twice in one day, but other that, I’m great.”

“Ouch.” Clarke winced. “I sort of deserved that, didn’t I?”

She didn’t say anything. After all that had happened, what was there to say?

“I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier,” said Clarke. “I panicked, and I said the wrong thing. What I meant to say was: yes, I’ll go away with you.”

Lexa looked up so fast that her neck cricked; Clarke laughed.

“Would you believe me if I said I was scared? I mean, look at you: you’re Lexa Woods. Number 1 in the world, pride and joy of the United States. I’m just some third-tier volleyball player.”

It was so inexplicable, so ridiculous to Lexa that Clarke would see herself like that that she protested: “But—you’re Clarke Griffin.” Clarke Griffin who would never fail to try and do right by people, who was always willing to see the best in others, and who always understood her, Lexa, no matter how broody and quiet she got. Clarke Griffin who was so much better than Lexa could hope for, that it was ridiculous that she would think herself beneath her.

“Now that we’ve established that we know each other’s names…” Clarke smiled shyly. “Are you still angry at me?”

“I never could be angry at you.” Heartbroken, yes, but anger—never.

“Oh. Great. Then, more important question: will you be—”

She never got to finish the sentence because Lexa surged forward, cupping the side of her face and pulling her in for a kiss, a kiss that felt like—

“Finally!”

They jumped away from each other, startled, as Raven stomped into the arena, her arms crossed.

“It was about time you guys did that. Now, did any of you see my phone?”

They looked at each other, breaking into identical smiles as Clarke leaned forward and kissed her cheek. They would work out the terms of the relationship later and figure out where they were going to go after this, but not right now, and maybe not for the next few days as Clarke prepared for her own competition, because all they had was time.

—

She called Costia the day after.

“ _I saw your game online_ ,” the girl said over the phone, and Lexa could hear the excitement in her voice. “ _You were brilliant_.”

“Thanks,” said Lexa shyly. “But Ontari was better.”

“ _She might have won, but you’re still number one._ ” There was a pause on the other end, as Costia seemed to collect her thoughts. “ _Any particular reason you decided to call me on my lunch break?_ ”

Well, it was now or never. Taking a deep breath and summoning all the courage she never thought she had, Lexa said: “It’s about what you said to me before I left. The ring.”

“ _Ah, yes. Of course._ ”

“I—um. I don’t think I can marry you. I’m sorry.”

There was a short silence on the other end, one where Lexa could hear Costia breathing. “ _I should have guessed you’d say that, really. Or knew. I knew. I just hoped beyond hope—but I guess I should congratulate you. Looks like you worked it out with that girl_.”

Clarke, her name was Clarke. But it would have been too cruel to correct Costia right now.

“I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful girl, and I really think…” _Think what?_ Her brain mocked her. _That you could have loved her? That you could have been good together?_ It seemed needlessly cruel at this point, taunting Costia with the ‘could-bes’ and ‘would-haves’ of their relationship. Instead, she said: “I really think that you deserve better. You’re too good for a half-hearted relationship.”

“ _Oh. Thank you. That’s nice of you to say._ ”

“I’m so, incredibly sorry, Costia.”

“ _Don’t be. I’m glad for you. Be happy, Lexa,_ ” she said, and the line went dead. Staring at the dropped call, she allowed herself a minute to grieve.

—

“I don’t know how you watch this,” Clarke complained, snuggling up to Lexa underneath the covers. They were playing Netflix in the sanctuary of Lexa’s room, left entirely to herself after her roommate flew home with the conclusion of her event.

Thus far, Clarke had grumbled at every single Pixar movie Lexa had chosen, until she had actually watched each one of them and fell in love with them.

“I would think that after crying at the past four movies, you would stop complaining that animated movies are only for children.”

“And stop annoying you? Never.” She grinned as Lexa flicked her nose playfully, and stuffed her face full with more popcorn. “Come on, quickly, I can’t wait to watch a movie about robots falling in love.”

“It’s a cautionary tale about environmental degradation,” said Lexa, but didn’t begrudge her the description. That was the best part of Wall-E, after all.

“Whatever,” she said, “just put it on.”

But as it turned out, Clarke spent most of the movie inching her hands under Lexa’s shirt, drawing circles and triangles and squares till Lexa flipped them over and planted kisses in a straight line from her lips all the way to under the waistband of her pants, loving the way Clarke would moan and whisper her name.

Then Clarke would grin wickedly and pull Lexa up, so that she could have her turn too.

And the movie would lie abandoned on the bed, Wall-E and Eve circling each other in a world completely uninhabited.

—

The day of Clarke’s final match, she had woken up so nervous that Lexa had to force her to eat breakfast, supervising her over Rio’s english daily as Clarke swallowed painfully.

It seemed Octavia wasn’t faring much better, looking positively green as she ate, with Bellamy humming a soothing tune next to her to calm her nerves down.

“It’s all a mistake,” Octavia kept mumbling. “It’s all a mistake. We weren’t supposed to get this far.”

Lexa patted Clarke soothingly on the back. “It’s okay. Just take it as another match.”

Raven looked delighted as she captured pictures of Octavia and Clarke’s faces, surely uploading them to the official Team USA Instagram for the entire world to see.

“Relax, guys,” said Monty. “They’re not as scary as you think.”

But all their advice fell on deaf ears, until the girls disappeared into the locker area, by which some magic must have happened, because they emerged tall and confident, puffing out their chests like superheroes.

“We’re gonna win this,” Octavia declared. “We’re gonna get the gold for Team USA.”

“That’s the spirit.”

With that, Lexa and Bellamy hunkered down in the front seats with the beach volleyball coach, Indra, who appeared to be completely emotionless no matter who had scored the point. Lexa didn’t quite know what was happening, except to cheer when their side of the arena cheered, and to groan when the other side of the area celebrated.

“Brazil’s pretty good, huh?” Lexa mumbled morosely, as Clarktavia lost their first set. Immediately, Indra stood up to go to them, muttering points of strategy that both girls listened to with determined expressions.

“They are, but we’re better,” said Bellamy, and jumped up to yell: “Team USA!” which set off another round of competitive cheering from the stands. Lexa rolled her eyes.

Just before the match started, Clarke’s eyes found hers, and she gave the girl a thumbs-up and a nod, which seemed to lend the other girl strength.

It was the tensest set yet, and when Clarke finally landed a spike that the Brazillians were unable to return, their stands let out a scream and began waving their flags and clappers excitedly.

Lexa grinned at Clarke as she walked up to the stands, handing her a bottle of water and a towel.

“You did great. Just one more.”

“Thanks, babe,” said Clarke, and winked, leaving Lexa far too flustered to think straight. She sat back down, hands gripping each other nervously as she watched Clarke and Octavia high-five before going to their positions.

The final set passed by in a blur, with too much hitting and spiking for Lexa to keep up without the help of the scoreboard. Then, with another spike from Clarke, the ball sailed just into the court, an inch out of reach from the opposing player; the crowd let out a roar, and did they just win?

Lexa didn’t have time to process the game before she found herself with an armful of Clarke, gripping her too tightly to think. After a moment, Clarke pulled back, and with a blazing look in her eyes, leaned forward to seal Lexa’s lips with hers, under the furious gaze of the world’s media and the eyes of hundreds of fans.

For a second—only a second—Lexa was too stunned to respond. Then, she gathered Clarke up in her arms only to kiss her harder. When they broke apart, Bellamy and Octavia was wearing twin grins.

“Wow. Did that really happen?”

“Only after eight years!”

The bigger surprise, probably, was the fact that Raven had even managed to keep the secret to herself for as long as she did.

—

Lexa had found herself caught up in the media frenzy too, as everyone wanted to know who the star beach volleyball player of the season was. Everyone had been up in Clarke’s face, trying to write articles in the last three days of the Games, capitalising on the interest in both her win and her ‘newfound romance’.

In fact, Clarke had been so busy with interviews that Lexa had barely any time to spend with her.

“Hey, take a look at this.” Clarke slid her the morning’s paper during breakfast, rolled up and squished with what must have been too much handling.

Lexa raised an eyebrow. “Another one of your wins?” She unfurled it, and her jaw dropped.

_CLARKE GRIFFIN’S RETIREMENT: Two short days after Clarke Griffin and Octavia Blake won the gold medal in the women’s beach volleyball event in Rio, Griffin has announced her impending retirement from the sport._

_“One gold medal is enough, really,” she said. “And I have something much better waiting for me out there.”_

“You’re…retiring?”

“Do you like it?” Clarke bit her lip.

“Are you kidding? You _love_ beach volleyball!”

“Yeah. But you were right. There are other things I want to do, like paint, or go to med school. And I’ve played enough. I’ve played seventeen years.”

Lexa stared at her, eyes wide, until Clarke leaned over to push her jaw back into place.

“Sorry, I guess I should have told you first. But I wanted it to be a surprise.”

And really, she didn’t know what came over her at that instant—it was certainly much too early for _that_ , and she hadn’t done any sort of planning at all—but it was all she could think of when she blurted out, “Marry me.”

“What?” Clarke froze.

“Marry me,” she said, sounding even more certain than ever. Because no doubt about it, this is what she wanted. “I can take photos and you can draw, and we can have two kids and a dog. We’ll be one of those ridiculously boring families that only ever goes to Disneyland for holidays.”

Clarke was smiling so widely and so brilliantly like the sun, and Lexa thought she’d never seen anyone look more beautiful.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

And maybe she had been wrong when she thought that nothing could match the high of competing in the Olympics.

Because this?

This was way better.

**Author's Note:**

> I know almost nothing about the Olympics, beach volleyball, or the US. But I did fence for a bit, so there's that.


End file.
